Title: Destiny Denied, Chapter Four of ???
Author(s): Specks, Nina, and Ky
Rating: This chapter is R (for language and such).
Summary: AU, folks... Everyone has a destiny, even though Buffy and Angel have long been denied theirs. A changing of the guard causes history to be rewritten and proves that, in the end, no one (yes, Joss and Marti, we're looking at you!) can alter what is destined to come to pass...
Spoilers: This *is* AU, and while everything is pretty fair game, in this chapter we'll be only be making mention of a particular event from the BtVS, Season Six (Two to Go/Grave) Finale.

Disclaimers: Brace yourselves, folks, this may come as a shock to some of you: We are *not* Marti or Joss or David Greenwalt. As a matter of fact, we're not any one (three) in any way involved with the shows, the networks, the production companies, the actors, their agents... yada, yada, yada. We're just some B/A fans, having a little fun with these characters while their owners are off making money with them.
Authors Notes: Ky is still thankful for "hot, half naked jogger-man."  Specks, brave survivor of and champion for the internet challenged, continues to thank the penguin. Meanwhile, Nina's just thankful her midterm is over and her days with the Moron Quadruplets are numbered.  ; ) 

On show notes, we'd like to give thanks to the makers of Botox, for fostering the hope for dent free eye candy everywhere.

Ky and Nina dedicate this chapter to Specks, for not lying in a ditch somewhere, bleeding… ;)


Collectively, we again sincerely thank everyone who's read and encouraged our lunacy on this little project and any of our other (on hold and not abandoned) stories. =o)

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(Late summer, 1898)

Lightning tore through the dark void of night as the violent thunderstorm raged.  Moonlight filtered eerily through the midnight sky, untouched as the rain and wind howled against quavering walls of wood and stone.  Creatures mortal and immortal alike trembled within their puny lodgings, cowering against the fury of Mother Nature's ire. 

All of them frightened, wary...  all but one.

Exposed and alone, he was at the complete mercy of the elements, yet he barely noticed his danger.  Crouched huddled against an alley wall, he trembled, his ragged breath coming out as hisses of pain.  He hadn't bathed or bothered to change clothes since Darla had tossed him into the street, viciously ordering the disoriented vampire to fend for himself and not taint her house with his 'filthy soul,' and now two months worth of sweat, grime and blood caked the dark haired vampire, staining his tattered clothes so that even the relentless rain could not completely wash away the evidence of his ordeals. 

The chaos of the storm raged around him, but still he crouched there, uncomprehending or uncaring at all.  Demonic yellow eyes stared sightlessly out of a ridged, gaunt face tight with anguish.  Except for the brief flickers of sanity that surfaced now and again, there was nothing. The rest of his mind lay trapped in something far more terrible than a storm...

Darkness seeped into every corner of his consciousness, and Angelus gripped the rocky formations of the wall behind him, bracing against the inevitable onslaught of accusatory faces and terrified screams.  Hundreds, thousands of faces, all filled with hate and fear. 

Inescapable.

Every night they stalked him, reminding him of the atrocities he'd committed, forcing him to face the monster that he was. The blood-spattered faces of his victims plagued him, forcing him to relive every gruesome kill in detail. To feel the shameful pleasure he took in feeling the rivers of warm, sticky blood permeate the air.

Intoxicating.

The sound of their incoherent begging had once been music to his ears and the deadened, defeated look in their eyes, art. But now, as those searing phantom gazes burned his soul, all he could feel was guilt. 

Drowning in the deafening sound of their screams, Angelus fisted his hands, feeling the sharp pebbles from the stone wall bite into his palms as he sought to control the pain.  The relentless screams tore at him, and the vampire, unable to take anymore let loose a sob that was the first among many. With a tear filled voice, he apologized to those wraiths of his past, breaking down as he had every night since he'd been cursed and had his soul returned.  

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he murmured over and over despairingly, unchecked tears running down his face, mixing with the rain, "I'm so sorry…"

"Goddesses!  It's bad enough they dump me here in the middle of the worst rainstorm since the great friggen flood….  How do they expect me to work with this?  At least you had most of your marbles back the last time we talked!"

Looking up from his position on the floor, Angelus found himself staring into the slightly grumpy face of a strangely dressed blonde. The man hovered over him with an umbrella, and for a moment, Angelus pondered why the blonde had not run at the sight of his demonic visage, but when his words registered, Angelus' eyes widened in surprise and confusion.

In a raw, hesitant voice, he addressed the peculiar man, questioning, "Who are you? "

"Geez," the diminutive demon grumped, addressing the sky, "you'd think a guy would remember ya when you've changed his life around more than once! There's just no thanks in this line of work…"

With a dramatic sigh, he offered the vampire a hand up and introduced himself with a flourish.

"Whistler, Demon of Destiny, at your service"

Narrowing his eyes at the mention of the word 'demon' Angelus gave the seemingly benign man a look that clearly said, 'Who?'

Rolling his eyes, Whistler ignored the unspoken question, opting for comfort before disclosure.

"I don't know about you, pal, but I *really* don't enjoy being soaked, let's go somewhere a bit… friendlier, shall we?"

With that Whistler snapped his fingers, and Angelus suddenly found himself in an elaborately decorated villa. Beautiful velvet curtains covered the French windows, spilling onto the floor, just ending where a thick oriental rug began. A gilded fireplace crackled lazily in one corner, the fire within warming the chilled bones of both its current occupants.  From the wall above, an antique grandfather clock chimed softly.  The centerpiece of the room was a giant Louis the XII couch, and that was where Whistler deposited Angelus upon arrival.

After ensuring that his charge wouldn't fall over or bolt from the shock, Whistler strolled over to a bar in the corner for some strong brandy and donated O positive. With a snifter in one hand and a mug in the other, he turned back to Angelus and shoved the mug into the bewildered vampire's hand.  After staring dumbly at the mug for a moment, Angelus sniffed the contents cautiously, his eyes narrowing as he determined the origin of the blood.

"This is human," he growled, staring at the grinning demon before him accusingly.


"Don't worry, it's donated," Whistler assured, holding up a hand in a placating manner.  Lifting his snifter in a small salute, he downed the amber liquid in one gulp before continuing, " Enjoy it now," he advised sagely, "It's gonna be a long while before you taste anything like that again.  It'll be packaged animal blood from now on, pal."

A few silent moments passed as the two supernatural beings regarded each other cautiously. 

Breaking the silence as he got up and refilled his snifter, Whistler asked, "So, you wanna know why I'm here or what?"

Angelus simply nodded, taking a cautious sip from his mug, eyes riveted on the smaller man as he continued to speak.

"It's simple really," he said as he sat back down, "I'm here for you. A recruiter, kinda…"  Seeing the vampire's confusion, he trailed off before clarifying, "I work for The Powers.  They want you to work for the side of good.  Be all you can be and all that jazz…"

This time, Whistler was halted by Angelus' laughter.  Bitter, hollow laughter as he regarded Whistler with cold eyes, "You lie, little demon.  I'm a vile creature; my very existence is blasphemy.  I've killed.  I've tortured.  I've maimed and butchered and bathed in the blood of innocents.  Worse still, I *rejoiced* in the slaughter.  No powers for good, if they exist, would even tolerate my being, much less want a bloodthirsty animal like me for their side."

"You're not an animal," Whistler sighed.

"I hunt, I kill, I drink blood.  I indulge the basest of instincts…  What makes me any different from an animal?"

"The difference, Liam of Galway," the demon intoned, stressing the vampire's human name, "is your soul.  That soul is your essence- what makes you, well, *you.*  For over a hundred years, after you were turned, your soul was in the ether, leaving your body as a vessel for the demon.  So it was the demon that killed and tortured and tormented, not you."  Looking Angelus in the eye sympathetically, Whistler carried on, "You got a raw deal, kid, keeping all the demon's memories the way you have, but you have to start to separate the demon from the man you were.  It won't be easy.  You've got that Catholic guilt that'll keep that blame firmly in place, make you feel bad for things you couldn't help and weren't responsible for.  It's even dicier since the demon is still there, under the soul, beneath the surface, making you feel some things.  After all, he's still a vicious, violent creature…" 

"Then why me? I'm still an abomination.  I don't deserve this."  The statement was quiet, without theatrics or drama, but it was said with such despairing conviction, that Whistler nearly lost it. Setting his brandy down with a bang, Whistler leapt angrily to his feet.

"Ay!  Don't you fuckin' tell me what you deserve!  I gave up my vacation because of you, to get you straightened out!  I had to give up lust bunnies and Corona for you!  And, and there was a coup!  Do you know how many millennia it's been since that's happened?  You think the girls would do that for an abomination?  Huh?! Huh?!  I'll have you know that, even though you're not the only vampire ever to regain his soul," his mind flashed to Spike and he made a mental note to bring *that* up with the Triad the first chance he got, "I am the only Demon of Destiny The Powers have got, and they sent me to you!  No. One. Else.  Just you.  Not just because you have a soul, but because of the soul you have.  They know what's to come and what part you could play in the future.  They know your potential, your soul, and they saw fit to send me to you.  So tell me to go to hell, threaten me, deny your destiny, if you want, but don't dare tell me again that you're not worthy!"

The vampire's dark eyes, wide after that outburst, regarded the slight demon carefully, looking for signs of deceit.  Whistler, breathing hard, seeming genuinely upset by Angelus' outlook, matched the vampire's stare defiantly…  Expectantly...

Closing his eyes, Angelus took a moment to adjust, trying out this new perception of himself, and then, coming to terms, he looked to Whistler for a full explanation.

Seeing Angelus was finally ready to accept his destiny, Whistler began, "Ok, boyo, the powers are giving you a chance to do some good.  Make a difference in the world.  Defeat the forces of evil- avert an apocalypse or two…  Yada, yada, yada…  Or you could continue your hermitic existence," he wrinkled his freckled nose in distaste, "smelling up a larger and larger chunk of the planet all the time until someone finally puts you out of your misery.  Your call.  Are ya interested?"

"I'm interested.  How am I supposed to make a difference?"

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TBC…

And again, it's that time…

We'd like to offer up apologies to anyone we've offended with this chapter, including the 'filthy souled' among us, people burdened with guilt, lapsed Catholics (Is that redundant? Judges, can we get a ruling?), peculiar people, and anyone going to hell in the same handbasket we are.  ;)

Feeback is always of the good…